by Alex Rosa
Tucker looks away, paces for a moment, and then looks back at me, thrumming his fingers over his chin.
“Skyler, I told you that you were in over your head. You entered the major leagues as a minor, and you joined the ranks of the all-star game.”
I let my shoulders slump as I take my head in my hands, letting out a string of cathartic laughs.
Tucker asks, “What are you laughing at?”
“You!” I continue to cover my face.
“Why?”
Lifting my head from my hands and squinting through my laughter, I answer. “I never imagined you, of all people, would throw out a sports reference.”
Tucker tosses a dish towel at me. “I’m serious,” he persists.
I straighten up as I walk toward the opposite counter, taking a stance right next to him. “I know you are, and if you want to hear it out loud, you’re right.”
His wry smile appears, and he wraps an arm around my shoulders, bringing me closer for a hug.
“As good as it sounds, that isn’t what I want.”
I lean my head against his shoulder. “What do you want, Tucker?”
“Two things. First, I want you to figure out what you want.”
“I know what I want.”
Tucker pulls away to get a better look at me. “What’s that, darlin’?”
“I want everything to go back to how it was before.”
“You want you and Blake to be friends?”
I chew my lip, finding the word “friends” isn’t the easiest to swallow any longer, but I nod through it.
“I do. I want us to be friends. If sex makes it too complicated, then we need to stop. As amazing as it is, I think I’ve realized I don’t want to lose him.”
Tucker chuckles. I look up at his handsome face, which has a few days’ growth, and I think of Blake’s delightful stubble—but I toss the wayward thought as quickly as it came.
“Now why are you laughing?”
He falls silent, pursing his lips, and he lets out a sigh. “Oh Skyler, forget it. I think the answer is really simple.”
“Enlighten me,” I quip.
“You two need to talk. Lay it all out. You need to say what’s on your mind, and he needs to say what’s on his. I bet you’ll find out a lot more if you talk to him about this, more than talking to me about it. You pick up what I’m puttin’ down?”
I grimace at the thought of confrontation, thinking that our last chat didn’t go so well.
“Just don’t cry,” he adds.
I smack him playfully on his chest as I walk out of his grasp.
“I don’t like crying, ya know? It just happens. I never considered myself a crier.”
He rolls his eyes at me. “Are you even listening to me?”
I grunt. “Okay, okay, I’ll talk to him.”
“Good! I think all the answers lie in a good chat.”
“Excuse me! Excuse me! I’d like coffee, please!”
Our eyes fly to the register to see an annoyed older gentlemen scowling at us.
“I’ll get it,” I tell Tucker.
Focusing on work and coffee is a more palatable process than thinking about a plan of action to talk to Blake.
“Hi, how can I help you?”
Chapter 30
After talking to Tucker I went straight home, ready to jump into this conversation headfirst. I was so desperate to find out where Blake and I stood, but the strangest thing happened.
Days went by without seeing or hearing from him.
Days.
With each passing second, I collected a new thing to tell Blake, or a new thing to add, so I could somehow salvage our connection. But he never came home. I started to feel silly. I just wanted to see his face. I had somehow convinced myself that if I could just lay my eyes on him, I’d be able to tell if we were okay.
I lingered in the house as much as I could, even dropping by during long breaks between classes, trying to catch him. But it turned up nothing. I would lie on the couch at night, and then lie to my brother that I was overworked and exhausted. Then I would simply continue to lie there until I couldn’t stay awake any longer and drag myself upstairs.
At school, I ignored Rich’s constant calls and debated whether I should call Blake, or at least text him. However, we never had a virtual friendship. Everything was in person, and texting felt too impersonal, but I was beginning to reach my limit.
The drag in time was starting to make me feel like Blake was a figment of my imagination, but his woodsy smell wafted from his empty room from time to time to remind me that I did not make him up.
I felt as if my worst fears were becoming a reality. Blake didn’t actually care about me and he didn’t know how to tell me. The thought made my insides ache. I don’t know if my guts were twisting in rebellion over the doubt of what Blake and I had, or this was another form of heartbreak.
By the third day, I tried to convince myself to give up hope. He obviously had nothing to say to me, nor did he want to see me. It was a hard pill to swallow.
The whole situation was becoming more baffling as I analyzed the myriad things I might have done wrong to push him so far away, but those thoughts were too mentally exhausting.
I wanted to pretend he missed me, but as time ticked by, I doubted it. It made every night seem filled with restless slumber, and by the fourth day, I officially had had enough. I was more hurt than anything. I’m tempted to call him just to yell at him.
I had shifted from sweet friendship-saving thoughts to outbursts of anger at his behavior. It helped me cope with the grinding emotional pain to picture myself yelling at him for all the reasons I thought he was an asshole when I first met him.
The worst part of this imaginative remedy was that each scenario ended with my favorite wry smirk, and the goading, glowing emerald orbs that warmed me from the inside out.
It’s Thursday now and I have given up all hope.
I plan on correcting the situation tomorrow morning with a jog to jumpstart my life. I’ve even considered returning Rich’s calls. It’s about time I faced him, too.
The condo has been lonely with Blake MIA and my brother having his own (more consistent) tryst with my friend. I’ve gotten used to having the living room to myself.
Now I get comfortable on the bright red couch, snuggling under my quilt and falling into the habit I’d become accustomed to over the past four days.
I turn on the movie I’ve been watching on repeat, too. Something about a Quentin Tarantino movie puts my body at ease. Django Unchained is my choice, and it helps that I have somehow formed an old-guy crush on Christoph Waltz.
Close to 10:00 p.m., the front door swings open, and it feels like the first time all week. To my dismay, my brother appears in the foyer. He has come home a couple times this week, but it’s never stopped my heart from beating out of my chest.
“Hey, Sprout, still not feeling too good?”
I fake a sniffle as he walks up to me. He’s still wearing his sharp suit, and his blazer is folded over his arm as he leans over to place a kiss on my forehead.
“I’m fine, Josh, just tired, but I think I’m getting better, I swear.”
He examines my state on the couch, and then peers back at the TV.
“Django again? Ya know, Tarantino’s got other epic films.”
I wrinkle my nose, causing a small smile to appear on his lips. “I told you. I have a crush on Christoph Waltz, and Inglorious Bastards is too intense for me. So Django will have to do.”
“Weirdo,” he quips, but then adds, “Do you need company?”
His tone catches my attention, and I get the feeling he’s offering because he thinks he has to.
“Don’t be silly, Josh. I’d prefer you leave me alone anyway.”
He rolls his eyes. “Well, I’m exhausted, so in a way I’m glad to hear it. Not that I don’t love you, but I’m beat. Sibling time soon?”
“Yes, please,” I reply, with the best smile I can manage.
Sleep is sounding more and more appealing as I watch my brother head into his room, shutting the door.
I snuggle deeper into the couch, feeling my body sink into the cushions as time ticks on. Sure enough, the minutes escape me.
My eyes fly open.
I didn’t realize I had fallen asleep. I scour the darkness to see Django’s DVD menu rerunning on the television screen as the clock on the cable box reads midnight.
I blink through my sleep as the sound of the front door swinging open hits my senses. My heart rate picks up again. I hold my breath as I peer up from the couch at the door, trying to see in the dark. I’m so sure my mind is playing tricks on me when Blake’s form enters my vision. He shuts the door behind him. His body, clad in his trademark formfitting T-shirt, leather jacket, and the skinny jeans that hang on his hips in that hypnotic way, makes my mouth go dry. His eyes glow almost like a cat’s in the darkness of the foyer as they make contact with mine.
He peels off his leather jacket, not taking his eyes off me, and I don’t know what to do with myself. I start to fear that if I move, he’ll disappear in a puff of smoke. He lifts his hand to hang his jacket on the wall, but ends up missing the hook and it falls to the floor. Blake doesn’t seem to care as he walks toward me. I’m more fearful than I thought I would be. He stumbles as he ambles toward me, and I flinch at the sight, but I’m also confused by it.
The stumbling becomes more prominent as he reaches the couch.
I turn over on my back, looking up at him as he leans over me, and I know I stopped breathing at least five minutes ago. His eyes look glassy, dazed, and his smirk looks playful, but there’s a hidden sadness to it.
I was worried I would explode in anger if I ever saw him again, but I’m speechless. I find his handsome face more captivating than ever, and his tousled hair even more so. I imagine him running his long fingers through it in the days I missed him, and that’s when I know I’m losing it. My existence has only been driven by fantastical imaginings of the boy before me.
“Hi,” he whispers, cutting the silence, and my heart jolts at the sound. I haven’t heard his voice in days, and hearing it now stirs all sorts of feelings. Like a gust of wind to a pile of leaves.
“Hi,” I whisper back. I watch his eyes drag over the length of my blanketed body and then back to my face.
“Let me in.”
Before I can ask what he means, he takes the edge of the blanket in his hand and swings it open. He swiftly climbs over me. He chuckles as he tosses the blanket over his body, encasing us as he finds the familiar place between my legs.
Then the wafting smell of his cologne and alcohol collide with my senses. Now his stumbles make sense.
I find my hands taking their comfortable position on his strong biceps as I fight the welcoming hum of my body against his.
“Blake, are you drunk?”
He places a quick kiss on the nape of my neck before perking his head up to look at me, and he smiles goofily. “I might have had a few drinks,” he slurs. “The past few days have been a blur.” His face sours as he ends his sentence, and his eyes dart over my face for some sense of calm.
“Are you okay?” I whisper.
He shakes his head, and his eyes look round and innocent. It’s the most adorable, and possibly the most vulnerable, I have ever seen him.
He leans in closer to my face, and I worry about what we’re doing. If he’s been drinking, what does this mean? I don’t want to fight him. I have never been good at it anyway.
Everything I had organized in my head becomes pointless as he presses his lips to mine. He hums his approval, sending delightful, tingling chills through every neuron of my body. I wonder how many cigarettes he’s smoked in the past few days, since I find that he tastes like the bottom of an ashtray.
He pulls away, nuzzling into my hair and neck, taking in a deep breath. His body relaxes to the rhythm of his exhale.
“God, I missed you so damn much,” he whispers, and it’s almost like a growl of disbelief.
I decide at this point to be a glutton for punishment and play along.
I run my hands through his hair, dragging my nails against his scalp, eliciting his reflexive groan. “Is that so?” I goad. His words are turning my insides into goo.
Another exaggerated nod appears as he pulls away.
He leans in for another kiss and I’m eager to have a taste, finding that with every touch and with every word, my sadness is slipping away.
Blake’s lips against mine take a frantic turn as he coaxes my lips open, dipping his sinful tongue into my mouth, teasing me. I can’t fight the moan that escapes me as his hips grind against mine, and my body begins its familiar ache to be closer. One hand makes a leisurely crawl up the length of my body, causing goose bumps to rise in its wake. His hand reaches its goal by cradling my jaw, anchoring my lips to his.
Blake licks over my bottom lip, nipping at it, and I have to close my eyes at the erotic sensation as I drag my hands over his toned back. The thin material of his T-shirt is still enough of a barrier to frustrate me. He feels boiling hot even through the shirt, and I can sense my body heating in response to his. He places kisses along my jawline and takes my earlobe between his teeth. I try my hardest to stifle my moan into his ear.
“I love to hear you,” he whispers against my skin. His hands drag down my body possessively, feeling every curve as he goes.
“I hate and love that I missed you.”
I’m confused by his words and want to tell him I feel the same, but he captures my lips again, silencing any oncoming retorts. His hips against mine grind harder, and I arch my hips into his. Blake’s intrepid fingers glide over my abdomen to the waistband of my gym shorts. Surprising me, he tries pulling them from my body, and it becomes clear what his goal is.
Against his lips, I speak between kisses, “Blake, you can’t. Not here. My brother is in his room. If he walks out, we’re dead.”
He stops his movements but keeps his hand cradled against my sex as he pulls his face away from mine, giving me a fierce, buzzed gaze. I squirm at the sight, desire pooling thick and hot between my legs.
“I don’t give a fuck. I don’t care about your brother. Let him find us. I don’t even care about that asshole guy, Rich, or anyone for that matter. I’m so goddamn sick of hiding. I want you so badly. I’ve missed you so much. I don’t know what I’m doing,” he slurs his uncertainty. “But I know I don’t care anymore, Skyler. I don’t.”
He analyzes my features, waiting for me to approve. He looks almost frightened, but more than anything, he looks fed up.
I know I should stop this. I know we should talk. I know that this has chaos and destruction written all over it, but it’s his words. His exasperated frustration with secrecy and the people involved. I feel the same, too. I know it’s a possibility that I may regret this decision in the morning, but after the past few days, I don’t want to fight it. I don’t want logic.
I look at him, smirking.
“You know what’s wrong with you?” I whisper.
He tilts his head to the side in that adorable way, and I can feel his fingers strum against the waistline of my shorts.
“No, what?”
“Absolutely nothing.”
I wish I could blame alcohol for my foolish words, but his rewarding grin is worth it, embarrassing moment or not.
“You stole that line from a movie,” he quips.
He’s right. I stole it from Charade, and I am damn proud of it. Although this could all end horribly, I think I can at least be proud I said that.
“I know, but these days it’s hard to be original.”
He chuckles as he looks down at me, and leans in to press his lips to mine. His frantic hands go back to their goal. I let him slip my shorts from my body and pray that my brother doesn’t wake up.
In the confines of the blanket, he begins on the buttons of his jeans as I lift my body to meet his, and a sexy moan emerges from his lips as they stroke mine.
I feel it. That need, like all those other times. We’re two people just aching to be as close as possible to each other, and it feels almost tangible, like static electricity igniting between our bodies. I help push his jeans down his hips, and I can feel the tip of his cock, hard and ready, at the entrance to my sex. I wrap my arms around his neck as he nuzzles into mine. He pushes inside me. His low growl of pleasure causes my blood to flame.
The contact is so sweet and satisfying as he begins slow, heavy ins and outs.
He captures my lips, and each lustful stroke is a slow and sensual assault that makes this different from the other times we’ve had sex. It feels like more.
His quiet moan against my lips coaxes the same sound from me as his hands hold my hips against his, making me think that this might actually be making love. I should be nervous and scared; my brother is only a room away, but I’m not. I’m savoring each inch of Blake as he takes his time doing the same to me.
“Fuck, Skyler.” He sighs before breathing out, “I’m sorry,” against my lips.
His hips grind into mine, going deeper. I groan my apology, too, as my body begins its climb. “I’m sorry, too.”
“I’ve been a wreck.”
I arch my hips up to take him to the hilt, the stretching and filling almost overwhelming as we both let out a hushed breath.
“I know,” I whisper, because at this point it’s obvious that it’s true.
I try to be brave as I feel a tremor run through Blake’s body, telling me he’s as close to the brink as I am. We swing our hips together under the secrecy of the blanket, devouring every bit of each other as we can.
“I missed you, too.”
I could be making it up, but I’m sure I can feel his grin against my lips as his hips quicken their movement.
